Of a Quiet Youth
by Jaganashi
Summary: It was her son's silence that unnerved Shiori the most. Quiet eyes that whispered doubts through her mind, set into the face of a child that never smiled.


(A/N. I'm not quite satisfied with this one. It's in more of a free-style than I usually prefer, but the next fic that I have waiting to be proofed will be a little more structured. Oh, and I don't own the characters. I buy many things on ebay, but I've never seen these rights for sale.)

**Of A Quiet Youth**

Shuichi had always been a quiet child. In fact, that's perhaps what had always unnerved Shiori the most. As an infant, he would cry only if he was in a legitimate need for attention. She had been a new mother, and like with anything else, there had been mistakes. The very first time that she had heard Shuichi scream, it had been in result to a bright red and no doubt very painful diaper rash. She had winced and felt terrible, berating herself for not changing him sooner and more frequently.

But it was the look on his face that had terrified her. Accusing. Angry. Tiny little lips pursed into a grim line, as if he had _known_ that it was her fault. As if she were incompetent, and the fact made him furious.

She spent much of her time trying to convince herself that it was her own insecurities and new-mother jitters projecting the appearance of such disdain onto a child too young to be be so jaded. After all, her friends' small children didn't seem to be capable of such looks. They all had unconditional love for their parents, with thoughts of grandeur and invincibility. Pick a child up, spin them around, and show them how to be an airplane. Now you're their hero for the day.

Or you feel like an idiot as you place him back on his feet and he just stares at you with annoyance.

"Don't you see it, Shiori? Something's wrong with him. Maybe it's biological, a chemical imbalance in the brain. Schizophrenia is a serious and real condition."

Makoto had quickly given up theories of projection or doubt. The boy unnerved him daily, and his wife refused to acknowledge it. They even consulted a therapist, who assured the Minaminos that their son would grow out of the silence once he learned to communicate and express himself. Shiori couldn't describe the ways that he was most certainly capable of expressing himself. By a look or body language, you simply knew that you were insignificant to him. Shiori was ever optimistic though, waiting for that change to come. Makoto on the other hand, had demanded medication. Drugs. Chemicals to give their child, to change his mind and emotions.

Shiori would have none of that.

So it was, that she had soon found herself without a husband. Alone to raise a child that she both feared and feared for. There were nights where she would wake, gripped by a nightmare of her son being consumed by some otherworldly monster. On these nights, she would not run to the nursery. She would instead grip her sheets tightly in white fists and refuse to leave the bed, because she knew what would greet her if she went. Barely a roll of the small body, an indifferent look, then a roll away back to sleep.

Then there were other nights where she could do nothing but hold him and cry. If she didn't look into his eyes, everything would be all right. She could hold him, feel him in her arms. He was real, he was her child, and she could wash away her fears until her body shook with the violence of it. Even as he grew old enough for words, he would simply sit there, limp in her hands to wait out the inconvenience. There were times that he would try to push away, no doubt irritated at being held for so long, but she would not allow it. The wracking of her body would increase, and so would her grip.

So much of her had become numb over the years. Friends didn't understand, and began keeping their distance. Remarrying was out of the question. She spent those years trying to be the best mother that she could be, taking the apathy and condescension in stride. Expecting it. Loving him regardless.

One night, when she had taken to holding him in his room and letting the tears flow quietly, he spoke to her. And for the first time, it had not been out of necessity. It was not a 'yes, no, food, sleep' response that he had been so limited to.

"I'm sorry."

It had startled her. She had taught him the words of course, yet had never heard him use but a fraction of his vocabulary.

"I'm sorry...mother."

For all of the looks that had held meaning, these words were filled with even more. The days to follow were filled with firsts. The first time that he reached his hand for hers when crossing the street. The first time that he would sit and paint with her. The first time that he laughed, in response to some remark that she had made in comparing his teacher to a kumquat.

He grew more and more into the behavior that she had originally imagined, and surpassed even some her earliest motherhood fantasies of a parent and child relationship. He developed into the son that she had longed for, through all of those lonely years. There were still aspects that were missing; she never witnessed the expected immature tantrums, boyish crushes, or the temperamental rollercoaster of puberty. But the condescension had vanished. There was no more anger or disinterest in his eyes when he looked to her.

It had instead been replaced by a deep guilt. Resonating in his eyes and tugging at her heart.

It was a look that she no less wanted to erase from her son's face. Yet horrible as it sounded when she admitted it to herself, her son's guilt did not break her down into tears with the weight of a crushing heart. And for that, she was grateful.


End file.
